UC-NRLF 


B    3    135    Efl? 


PEELUDES. 


BY 

MAURICE   F.  EGAN. 


"  The  world  is  too  much  with  us  •  late  and  soon, 

Getting  and  spending,  ive  lay  waste  our  powers, 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours, 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon." 

WORDSWORTH. 


L  I  .»  II  \  It.  Y 

[PUBLISHED  TO  AID   IN  THE   REBUILDING   QF   THE 


CALIFORNIA. 

>^  _______  :  __ 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PETER  F.  CUNNINGHAM  &  SON, 

817  ARCH  STREET. 

1880. 


COPYRIGHT. 
THE  UNIVERSITY   OF   NOTRE  DAME. 

1879. 


^  ^ "^^ 

J.    PAGAN    &    SON,  ^ 

STEREOTYPKRS,    PHILAD'A 


TO  THE 

REV.  DANIEL  E.  HUDSON,  C.S.C., 

OF   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   NOTRE    DAME, 

THIS    BOOK 


WITH  THE  ESTEEM   AND  ADMIRATION 


THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


//  is  related  in  an  ancient  fable,  that  when  a  rustic 
called  Marsyas,  who,  being  young,  and  consequently 
prone  to  self-delusions,  tried  to  compete  with  Apollo  in 
the  art  of  music,  he  was  not  only  worsted,  but  severely 
punished  for  his  presumption.  But  the  modern  Marsyas 
may  pipe  to-day,  and  Apollo  —  who  doubtless  only  pre 
figured  our  great  poets — not  only  listens,  but  encourages : 
and  so  there  is  much  piping  of  many  tunes.  Now  the 
author  of  PRELUDES  does  scarcely  resemble  Marsyas ; 
he  is  rather  like  certain  exiles  from  sunny  Italy.  He 
pipes  with  a  purpose.  He  says  to  you,  "Listen  to  my 
music,  if  you  will;  but,  if  you  will  not,  at  least  drop 
something  into  my  hand."  In  this  manner,  which  he 
flatters  himself  is  very  delicate  and  ingenious,  he  calls 
attention  to  the  cause  for  which  his  book  is  published  — 
a  cause  which  should  enlist  the  best  efforts  of  every  man 
who  knows  the  value  of  education  in  shaping  the  desti 
nies  of  his  race. 

!*  V 


"Theocritus,"  "Maurice  de  Guerin,"  and  "  Of  Flowers"  are  published 
with  the  kind  permission  of  the  editor  oSScribner's  Monthly;  "  The  Sleeping 
Song"  and  "  My  Friend's  Answer"  by  the  favor  of  the  Editor  of  Lippincott's 
Magazine. 


vi 


CONTENTS. 


SONNETS. 

PAGE 

OF  FLOWERS  ...  .        .     13 

A   ROMAUNT   OF   THE   ROSE    ...  .14 

LEGENDS   OF   THE   SNOWDROP: 

I.  THE  CHILD 15 

II.  MARGUERITE         ....  .16 

AT  THE  END  OF  AUTUMN 17 

NOVEMBER .        .18 

ERA  ANGELICO 19 

RAPHAEL 20 

MAURICE  DE  GUERIN    ....  .        .     21 

THEOCRITUS 22 

ON  READING  "THE  POET  AND  His  MASTER"  .        .     23 

CERVANTES .24 

FREDERIC  OZANAM 25 

JESSICA 26 

LOVE       .        .        .        .   » 27 

ARRIERE  PENSEE  .  28 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 


MY  FRIEND'S  ANSWER PA2g 

BY  RIGHT  DIVINE 30 

ON  MEADOWS  GREEN 3I 

ILLUSION ^ 

ORDER ~, 

THE  SACRED  HEART 34 

THE  HEART  IMMACULATE     .                .                .  35 

A  PIERCED  HEART       .....  36 

SAINT  THERESA  TO  OUR  LORD    .        ...        .  37 

TROUBLED  SOULS  ^ 

AT  THE  "AGNUS  DEI"         ....  30 

GUI  BONO? 40 

THE  POWER  OF  PRAYER 4I 

THE  LESSON  OF  A  SEASON 4-? 

CONSOLATION -9  .- 

AFTER  LENT  . 

.  44 

"  RESURREXIT  SICUT  DIXIT"       .        .        .        .  4c 

ST.  PATRICK'S  DAY       .        .        .                ..  ,  4£ 

DANIEL  O'CONNELL      .        .        .        .    :     .         47,  48,  49 

THE    CENTENNIAL   FOUNTAIN: 

I.  THEOBALD  MATHEW  .....  c0 

II.  THE  CARROLLS  AND  OTHERS     ...  cr 

III.  THE  WORKERS  .        .        ...        .        .  52 

BISMARCK - 


CONTENTS.  IX 


PAGE 


HYLAS,AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

HYLAS    ....  -57 

THE  SLEEPING  SONG     .  .    62 

CYCLOPS  TO  GALATEA  ...                        .  .    64 

BETWEEN  THE  LIGHTS  ...  67 

ON  READING  "  OUT  OF  SWEET  SOLITUDE"  .    70 

CHARITY        ....  •    72 

FROM  THE  GRAVE  75 

FADED  LEAVES      .  •    76 

TO-DAY -77 

OF  LIFE         ...  .78 
SONGS. 

I.  "  GREEN  AND  GOLD  "  -79 

II.  AFTER  HAFIZ          ....  .80 

III.  FROM  THE  FRENCH          .  .81 

IV.  APPLE  BLOSSOMS     .  .82 
V.  LIKE  A  LILAC 83 

VI.  DANGEROUS  FRANKNESS  .    85 

VII.  A  RHAPSODY 87 

VIII.  DRIFTING 89 

IX.  A  SWEDISH  LEGEND        .  .    91 

X.  AN  OLD  FRENCH  BALLAD      .        .        .  -93 

XI.  THE  CHANGELESS  ONE            .        .        .  .95 


I,  I  B  K  A  k  i 

UNIVERSITY   OF 

OALIFOKNfA, 


SONNETS. 

What  is  a  sonnet  ?     '  T is  the  pearly  shell 

That  murmurs  of  the  far-off  murmuring  sea  ; 
A  precious  jewel  carved  most  ciiriously  ; 

It  is  a  little  picture  painted  well. 

What  is  a  sonnet  ?     '  Tis  the  tear  that  fell 

From  a  great  poef  s  hidden  ecstasy  ; 

A  two-edged  sword,  a  star,  a  song — ah  me  ! 
Sometimes  a  heavy  tolling  funeral  bell. 

This  was  thefiame  that  shook  with  Dante's  breath  ; 
The  solemn  organ  whereon  Milton  played ; 

And  the  clear  glass  where  Shakespeare 's  shadow  falls. 
A  sea  this  is  —  beware  who  "venture th  ! 
For  like  a  fjord  the  narrow  floor  is  laid 

Deep  as  mid-ocean  to  the  sheer  mountain  walls. 

R.  W.'GlLDER,  in  "  The  Poet  and  His  Master." 

xi 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY   OF 

CALIFORNIA. 


PRELUDES. 


OF  FLOWERS. 


were  no  roses  till  the  first  child  died, 
1       No  violets,  nor  balmy-breathed  heart's-ease, 

No  heliotrope,  nor  buds  so  dear  to  bees, 
The  honey-hearted  suckle,  no  gold-eyed 
And  lowly  dandelion,  nor,  stretching  wide, 
Clover  and  cowslip-cups,  like  rival  seas, 
Meeting    and    parting,    as    the    young    spring 

breeze 

Runs  giddy  races  playing  seek  and  hide  : 
For  all  flowers  died  when  Eve  left  Paradise, 
And  all  the  world  was  flowerless  awhile, 

Until  -a  little  child  was  laid  in  earth  ; 

Then  from  its  grave  grew  violets  for  its  eyes, 

And  from  its  lips  rose-petals  for  its  smile, 

And    so  all  flowers  from  that   child's    death 

took  birth. 
2  13 


A   ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE. 

A  FAIRER  light  than  ever  since  has  shone, 
Fell  on  that  garden  where  Queen  Eve's  sweet 

bower 

Was  hid  in  roses  and  the  jasmine  flower, 
Curtained  with  eglantine,  and  overrun 
With  morning-glories  glowing  in  the  sun 
Late  into  noon,  unheeding  of  the  hour 
When  now  they  close ;  these  were  our  mother's 

dower! 

She  lived  and  loved  amid  all  flowers,  save  one. 
There  was  no  red  rose  in  the  garden  wide 
Of  all  her  world,  until  its  mistress  went 

From  out  its  gates  with  roses  in  her  hand, 
Spoil  of  past  joys ;  then,  like  a  new-made  bride, 
She  blushed  in  shame,  and  that  first  blush  has 

lent 
The  rose  its  color  over  all  our  land. 


I 


LEGENDS  OF  THE  SNOWDROP. 
I. 

THE   CHILD. 

N  the  late  winter,  when  the  breath  of  spring 


Had  almost  softened  the  great  fields  of  snow, 
A  mother  died,  and,  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Her    sad    child    sought    her  —  frightened,    little 

thing !  — 

Through  the  drear  woodland,  as  on  timid  wing 
Flutters  a  young  bird;  amid  bushes  low 
It  sunk  in  sleep,  thus  losing  all  its  woe, 
With  smiling  lips  her  dear  name  murmuring : 
No  loving  arms  were  there  to  hold  it  fast, 
There  were  no  kisses  for  it  warm  and  sweet, 

But  snowflakes,  pitying,  fell  like  frozen  tears. 
Then  said  its  angel,  "  Snowflakes,  ye  shall  last 
Beyond  the  life  of  snowflakes ;  at  spring's  feet 
Bloom  ye  as  flowers  through  all  the  coming 

years !  " 

15 


l6  LEGENDS    OF    THE    SNOWDROP. 


II. 

MARGUERITE. 

A  SHAMED  before  the  world  a  woman  stood 
1\  Near  a    great   church,  where  lovely  statues 

line 

The  vaulted  chapels :  if  tears  be  a  sign 
Of  sorrow,  she  was  sorrowing ;  her  hood 
Showed  golden  hair  astray  that  never  could, 
Even  in  sin,  forget  its  young  design 
To  curl  like  tendrils  of  a  summer  vine. 
From  out  the  church  passed  women  sternly  good  ; 
Upon  her  fevered  brow  was  laid  no  hand, 

Though  Christ  had  blessed  her  sister  Magdalen; 
She  wept  and  prayed,  yet  scornful  words  were 

said  ; 

But  soon  soft  snowflakes,  falling  o'er  the  land, 
Soothed  her  hot  brow:  her  angel  spoke,  "These, 

men, 

Shall  bloom  as  flowers  when  ye  lie  cold  and 
dead." 


AT  THE  END    OF  AUTUMN. 

LOST  !  all  the  flush  of  roses  and  of  skies 
That  change  at  morning  to  the  red  of  eve, 
O'er  clover-waves  that  in  soft  meadows  heave 
In  foam  of  blossoms  with  white-fringed  eyes  - 
The  changing  glamor  that  the  sun  fays  leave, 
The  snow  of  summer  that  on  green  sward  lies 

When  roses  faint  and  all  their  spells  unweave 
In  vale  and  coppice,  ere  the  autumn  flies  ! 
Ah,  naught  is  left  to  me  but  winter  days, 
For  all  my  summer  has  been  lost  to  me 

Amid  dull  drudging  in  the  toil  of  trade. 
Lost  gold  of  grain-fields,  green  of  country  ways  — 
A  dream  !  —  my  dream  !  for  one  whole  day  of 

ye 
I  'd  risk  all  gold  of  men,  and  be  well  paid  ! 

2*  B  17 


NOVEMBER. 

^T^ic&K^r-. 

PHE  crimson,  and  the  russet,  and  the  gold, 
±    The  palest  green  that  gives  a  hint  of  spring, 
And  nameless  colors  that  swift  breezes  fling 
From  waving  trees  :  tall  dahlias  crisped  by  cold 
Vie  with  the  sunrise,  as  some  men  when  old 

Are  brightest,  or  as  swans,  when  dying,  sing, 
Or  a  sweet  strain  the  fickle  zephyrs  bring 
Stopped  short  before  its  burden  is  all  told. 
O  fair  November,  lesson  us,  we  pray ; 

O  sweet,  sad  season,  teach  us  ere  you  go; 
O    teach    us,   ere    your    mellow    lights    have 

passed, 
The  secret  in  the  fading  of  your  day ; 

That  when  life's  end  approaches,  we  may  know 
The  way  to  make  our  fairest,  brightest,  LAST  ! 


1 8 


FRA   ANGELICO. 


ART  is  true  art  when  art  to  God  is  true, 
And  only  then  :  to  copy  Nature's  work 
Without    the    chains    that    run    the   whole   world 

through 

Gives  us  the  eye  without  the  lights  that  lurk 
In  its  clear  depths  :  no  soul,  no  truth  is  there. 

Oh,  praise  your  Rubens  and  his  fleshly  brush  ! 
Oh,  love  your  Titian  and  his  carnal  air  ! 

Give  me  the  trilling  of  a  pure-toned  thrush, 
And  take  your  crimson  parrots.     Artist  —  saint  ! 

O  Fra  Angelico,  your  brush  was  dyed 
In  hues  of  opal,  not  in  vulgar  paint  ; 

You   showed   to   us   pure  joys   for   which   you 

sighed. 

Your  heart  was  in  your  work,  you  never  feigned  : 
You  left  us  here  the  Paradise  you  gained  ! 


RAPHAEL. 


STEEPED    in    the    glow    and    glory    of    old 
Rome- 

So  old,  so  young,  in  life,  and  death,  and  art  — 
His    pictures   shine,  so    near    to    Truth's    great 

heart, 

That  through  the  ages  Truth  has  in  her  home 
The  brightest  stars  in  her  celestial  dome 

Kept  them  alive  ;  and  will,  till  time  is  done, 
Fill  them  with  stronger  light  than  fire  or  sun. 
Great    Prince    of    Painters  !     laurel    wreathes    his 

name  ; 

The  world  may  babble,  —  she  's  an  ancient  dame  ! 
And  say  his  life  and  art  held  much  of  clay, 
Reproaching  him  ;  yet  saints  fell  on  their  way. 
If  sin  repented  be  a  blot  on  fame, 

His  fame  is  fameless,  though  he  reached  fame's 

goal, 
And  left  us  glory  shining  from  his  soul. 

20 


MAURICE  DE  GUERIN. 

-^^-••fr^ffS^^* — 

THE  old  wine  filled  him,  and  he  saw,  with  eyes 
Anoint  of  Nature,  fauns  and  dryads  fair 
Unseen  by  others ;  to  him  maidenhair 
And  waxen  lilacs  and  those  birds  that  rise 
A-sudden  from  tall  reeds  at  slight  surprise 

Brought  charmed  thoughts  :  and  in  earth  every 
where 

He,  like  sad  Jaques,  found  unheard  music  rare 
As  that  of  Syrinx  to  old  Grecians  wise. 
A  pagan  heart,  a  Christian  soul  had  he, 

He  followed  Christ,  yet  for  dead  Pan  he  sighed, 

Till  earth  and  heaven  met  within  his  breast : 
As  if  Theocritus  in  Sicily 

Had  come  upon  the  Figure  crucified 

And  lost  his  gods  in  deep,  Christ-given  rest. 


THEOCRITUS. 


DAPHNIS  is  mute,  and  hidden  nymphs  com 
plain, 
And    mourning    mingles   with   their   fountains' 

song; 

Shepherds  contend  no  more,  as  all  day  long 
They    watch    their    sheep    on    the    wide,    Cyprus 

plain ; 
The  master-voice  is  silent,  songs  are  vain ; 

Blithe  Pan  is  dead,  and  tales  of  ancient  wrong, 
Done  by  the  gods  when  gods  and   men  were 

strong, 

Chanted  to  waxed  pipes,  no  prize  can  gain. 
O  sweetest  singer  of  the  olden  days, 

In  dusty  books  your  idyls  rare  seem  dead,— 

The  gods  are  gone,  but  poets  never  die ; 
Though  men  may  turn  their  ears  to  newer  lays, 
Sicilian  nightingales  enraptured 

Caught  all  your  songs,  and  nightly  thrill  the 
sky. 


22 


ON  READING 

"  THE  POET  AND  HIS  MASTER." 

(TO    RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER.) 

COMES    that    sad    voice,    O    poet,    from   your 
heart  ?  — 

That  austere  voice  that  vibrates  on  the  strings 
Of  your  sweet  lyre,  and  into  blithe  song  brings 
Notes  solemn,  as  if  Christian  chants  should  start 
Into  weird  concord  with  the  notes  that  dart 
From  Pluto's  bride  in  exile  when  she  sings 
Of   woodland    days,   when    near    her    mother's 

springs, 

To  Syrinx-music,  she  bade  care  depart: 
In  all  your  songs  the  birds  and  trees  are  heard, 
But  through  your  singing  sounds  an  undertone— 
Wind-message   through  the  reeds,  not  sung, 

but  sighed :  — 
Your  heart  sings  like  a  silver-throated  bird, 

Your    soul,   remembering,    sea-like,    makes    its 

moan, 
Not  for  the  dead  gods,  but  that  Christ  has 

died. 

23 


CERVANTES. 

'T^HERE  was  a  time  when  books  of  chivalry 
J-     Were  full  of  monster-men  and  dragons  great ; 

When  Amadis  of  Gaul  and  his  fair  mate 
Were  bound  in  love  against  all  rivalry; 
When  he  who  strove  a  faithful  knight  to  be 

Must  lengthened  vigils  keep  and,  longing,  wait, 
And  also  fight  until  he  stood,  elate, 
O'er  giants  and  dragons  in  proud  victory. 
Then  came  Quixote,  peerless  gentleman, 

Who  put  the  dragons  and  the  giants  to  flight, 
And  turned  the  world   from  knights  all  am 
orous  ; 

Then  through  the  world  the  rippled  laughter  ran 
When  Sancho   came.      No   shadows   were    the 

knight 
And  clown  our  great  Cervantes  gave  to  us. 


L  1  B  H  A  K  Y 

UNIVKKSITY   OF 

CALIFORNIA 

FREDERIC  OZANAM. 


A  SOUL  alight  with  purest  flame  of  love, 
A  heart  aglow  with  sweetest  charity, 
A  mind  all  filled  —  and  this  is  rarity  — 
With  even-balanced  thoughts,  his  eyes  above, 
Yet  saw  the  earth  in  its  dread  verity ; 
For  is  't  not  true  that  some  who  Heaven  see 
Cast  down  no  looks  upon  the  shadows  of 
This  shadowed  world  ?     A  serpent,  yet  a  dove, 
He  read  the  world,  and,  seeking,  found  the  clue 
To  all  the  secrets  of  our  troubled  time, 

And  from  the  past  drew  other  secrets  down ; 
He  placed,  'mid  Dante's  bays,  a  diamond  true 
Of  purest  water;  and  in  every  clime 

Prayers  of  God's  poor  add  gems  to  his  bright 

crown. 

3  25 


JESSICA. 


THE  youth  beneath  her  balcon  sings  of  love  — 
Old  Shylock  's  gone  :    "  O  Jessica,  come  thou 
Unto  this  heart,  which  in  one  fervent  vow 
Has  burned  its  flesh  and  blood  !  "     The  moments 

move 
As  days  in  Eden  ;  she  goes,  like  a  dove 

From  great  St.  Mark's  at  Venice,  to  endow 
Her  lover  with  her  life.     The  rosy  Now 
Seems  Heaven  itself,  and  he  the  Lord  thereof. 
But  love  is  rainbow-tinted  and  as  short 

As  is  the  life  of  rainbows.     "Mine?  Oh,  nay!" 

Say'st  thou,  fair  Jessica,  who  maketh  sport 
Of  that  old  Jew  thy  father?     In  love's  court 
Thou  dost  eat  lotos,  but  old  lovers  say 

To  love's  own  chamber  memories  oft  resort. 

26 


LOVE. 

IS  love  the  passion  that  the  poets  feign, 
Drawn  from  the  ruins  of  old  Grecian  time, 
Born  of  Priapus  and  all  earthly  slime, 
And  tricked  by  troubadours  in  trappings  vain 
Of  flowers  fantastic,  like  a  Hindoo  fane, 
Or  the  long  metre  of  an  antique  rhyme 
Dancing  in  dactyls  ?     Is  love,  then,  a  crime  - 
A  rosy  day's  eternity  of  pain  ? 
If  we  love  God,  we  know  what  loving  is ; 
For  love  is  God's :  He  sent  it  to  the  earth, 
Half-human,  half-divine,  all  glorious, — 
Half-human,  half-divine,  but  wholly  His  ; 

Not  loving  God,  we  know  not  true  love's  worth, 

We  taste  not  the  great  gift  He  gave  to  us. 

27 


ARRIERE  PEN  SEE. 

TT7HY  is  it  that  our  life  seems  full  of  wrong; 
V  V     That  even  poets,  who  are  human  birds, 

Set  saddest  music  to  the  saddest  words, 
And  mingle  sighs  and  tears  in  all  their  song? 
For  Chaucer's  marguerites  still  bloom  along 
Our  rustic  fences,  herdsmen  and  their  herds 
Know  Shakespeare's  cuckoo-cups,  and  the  new 

curds 

Are  hard  and  white,  and  violet-scent  is  strong : 
Tis  not  because  the  gods  are  silent  all, 
For  in  Sienna  the  Brigata  held 

Their  revels,  and  joy's  golden  badges  wore,-— 
So  sayeth  sweet  Folgore,  —  carnival 

Reigned    blithe    and   jocund:    Giant   Thought 

has  felled 
The  gay  Page  Laughter:   there  is  mirth  no 

more. 

28 


MY  FRIENDS  ANSWER. 

I  READ,  O  friend,  no  pages  of  old  lore, 
Which  I  loved  well,  and  yet  the  winged  days, 
That    softly   passed    as   wind    through    green 

spring  ways 

And  left  a  perfume,  swift  fly  as  of  yore, 
Though  in  clear  Plato's  stream  I  look  no  more, 
Neither  with  Moschus  sing  Sicilian  lays, 
Nor  with  bold  Dante  wander  in  amaze, 
Nor  see  our  Will  the  Golden  Age  restore. 
I  read  a  book  to  which  old  books  are  new, 

And  new  books  old.     A  living  book  is  mine  — 

In  age,  two  years  :  in  it  I  read  no  lies  ; 
In  it  to  myriad  truths  I  find  the  clew  — 
A  tender,  little  child ;  but  I  divine 

Thoughts   high  as  Dante's   in  its  clear  blue 

eyes. 
3*  29 


BY  RIGHT  DIVINE. 

T  N  this  free  land  I  know  a  tyrant  king 

Who  rules  supreme  a  kingdom  all  his  own, 
Who  reigns  supreme  by  right  divine  alone, 

Who  governs  slaves  that  always  cringe  and  sing, 
"  He  walks  !     He  talks  !  "   in  most  admiring- 

o 

tone  ; 

They  quail  with  fear,  if  he  but  make  a  moan, 
And  wild  confusion  comes,  if  he  but  fling 
Away  his  sceptre  —  coral,  jingling  thing! 
He  is  a  king,  though  loving  anarchy, 

A  tyrant  king,  whom  our  fond  land  obeys, 
A  tyrant  king,  yet  scarce  a  mimic  man  ; 
And  this  whole  land  is  bound  in  monarchy, 
All  mother-hearts  some  little  monarch  sways, 
If  harder  fathers  be  republican ! 

30 


L  1  B  K  A  K  Y 

UNIVKHS1TY   OF 

CAL1FOUNIA. 

ON  MEADOWS  GREEN. 


WHEN  the  first  blush  and  bloom  of  life  have 
fled, 

And  on  the  summit  of  youth's  mound  we  stand, 
And  youth  to  manhood  gladly  gives  his  hand, 
And  then  quick  dies,  and  manhood  in  his  stead 
Shows  us  a  mist  that  hides  an  unknown  land, 
By  wild,  chill  breezes  are  our  faces  fanned  : 
The  world  's  before  us,  and  no  longer  red, 
Nor  glowing  with  fair  hope,  for  youth  is  dead. 
A  mist  all  gray  is  drawn  before  the  world  — 
This  great  wide  life  !     To  fight  life  all  alone 
Is  now  our  lot ;  yet  other  men  have  seen 
The    same    vague    foe ;    and    patient    souls    have 

hurled 

Their  fear  away,  and,  going,  made  no  moan, 
To   find  the    mist    God's    rain    on    meadows 

green. 

31 


ILLUSION. 

(AFTER  THE  FRENCH  OF  SAINTE-BEUVE.) 

INTO  the  dimness  of  a  chamber  closed, 

1      Curtained  with   care   and   full   of  slumb'rous 

rest, 

A  ray  of  light  came,  sloped  from  the  west, 
To  the  small  cradle  where  a  child  reposed  — 
A  dainty  cradle,  laced  and  satin-rosed 

By  mother's  hand,  and  in  its  fairy  nest 

The    child    soft    slumbered,    by    the    angels 

blest  - 

Near  it  lay  Mouser,  white-furred  and  pink-nosed  : 
The  cat  was  motionless  as  if  of  clay, 

Until  the  gold  ray  moved  upon  the  floor 

O'er  crimson  carpet  in  its  wanton  game,— 
Then  all  a-sudden  Mouser  saw  the  ray 
And  chased  it  till  it  vanished  evermore  : 

Ah,  sleeping  child,  thus  ^ve  chase  wealth  and 

fame ! 

32 


ORDER. 
(FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  ST.  FRANCIS  D'ASSISI.) 

Our  Lord  Speaks  : 

AND  though  I  fill  thy  heart  with  warmest  love 
Yet  in  true  order  must  thy  heart  love  me ; 
For  without  order  can  no  virtue  be. 
By  thine  own  virtue,  then,  I  from  above 

Stand  in  thy  soul ;  and  so,  most  earnestly, 
Must  love  from  turmoil  be  kept  wholly  free. 
The  life  of  fruitful  trees,  the  seasons  of 
The  circling  year,  move  gently  as  a  dove. 
I  measured  all  the  things  upon  the  earth  ; 

Love  ordered  them,  and  order  kept  them  fair, 

And  love  to  order  must  be  truly  wed. 
O  soul !  why  all  this  heat  of  little  worth  ? 

Why  cast  out  order  with  no  thought  or  care  ? 
For  by  love's  warmth   must  love  be  gov 
erned. 

C  33 


THE  SACRED  HEART. 

A    JUNE    PHANTASY. 

HOW  red  it  burns  within  yon  crimson  rose  ! 
Deeper  than  fire  in  rubies  is  its  hue 
Of  brightest  blood,  which,  shed  for  me  and  you, 
From  that  dear  Heart  has  flowed,  forever  flows. 
In  waving  sprays  of  buds,  carved  mountain  snows, 
I  see  her  heart,  forever  pure  and  true, — 
Sweet  Mary's  heart!  —  and  in  the  morning  dew 
The  tears  of  joy  she  shed  when  her  great  woes 
Were  lost  in  Heaven :  and  all  June  things  speak, 
From  ambient  perfume  in  the  sunlit  air 

To  trembling  stalklets  tipped  by  clover  bloom, 
Of  Christ,  His  Mother,  and  the  Heart  we  seek 
Through  tangled  roads  and  by-ways  foul  or  fair, 
The    Heart   that   cheers    us    in   the    murkest 
gloom. 

34 


THE  HEART  IMMACULATE. 
— ~^*tf?m^r .- 

rpHROUGH    street   and    field   wild    howls    the 
-I       March  wind's  blast, 

The  bare  trees,  shiv'ring,  loudly  wail  and  moan, 
Like  souls  remorseful  for  the  bright  days  flown, 
When  life  was  young  and  no  sin  dimmed  the  past ; 
Deep  sounds  in  minor  key  run  through  the  vast 
Gloomed  cavern  of  the  night :  alone,  alone, 
Yet  in  a  warring  world,  our  weak  hearts  groan, 
And  catch  at  prayer,  to  find  sweet  peace  at  last. 
And  this  we  know  :  let  all  the  world  be  dark, 
Dear  Mary  watches  o'er  our  troubled  sea ; 
And  this  we  know  :  though  unknown  danger 

lurks 

In  all  our  land,  her  pure  heart  is  an  ark, 
In  which  we  shelter,  childlike,  trustingly  — 
O    heart    unstained !    the    greatest    of  God's 

works. 

35 


A   PIERCED  HEART. 

"  Come  colui,  che  andando  per  lo  bosco, 
Da  spino  punto,  a  quel  si  volga  e  guarda."  —  DANTE. 

BREAK  not,  sad  heart,  for  Christ  is  over  all. 
Rejoice,  sad  soul :   His  Mother  suffered,  too  ; 
And  in  your  desert  shall  fall  silver  dew 
Before  the  echo  of  faint  hope's  weak  call 
Shall  into  the  dim  depths  of  silence  fall. 

Poor  heart,  poor   heart,  your   sorrow   seemeth 

new, 

Yet  from  all  ages  the  same  law  holds  true, 
That  hearts  must  bleed  outside  of  Heaven's  wall. 
Sink  not  in  dumb  despair,  for  never  vain, 

Since  Christ  is  Christ,  has  proved  the  power  of 

prayer ; 

Has  He  not  said  it,  who  our  great  King  is  ? 
Oh,  sorrow  is  not  new,  and  when  the  rain 

And  storm  are  passed,  your  heart  will  blossom 
fair 

As  roses  in  God's  sight,  and  wholly  His. 

36 


SAINT  THERESA    TO   OUR  LORD. 

AFTER    THE    FRENCH    OF    SAINTE-BEUVE, 

I   DO  not  love  Thee  for  the  joy,  O  Lord, 
Which   Thou   hast  promised    souls    who   love 

Thee  well ; 

I  do  not  fear  Thee  for  the  fires  of  hell, 
Which  burn  for  those  whose  right  to  Thy  reward 
Is  lost  by  sin  ;  but  with  the  whole  accord 

Of  mind,  and  soul,  and  longing  heart  as  well, 
I  love  Thee  for  the  time  when  Thou  didst  dwell 
Scorned  on  the  earth,  mocked  by  a  faithless  horde  : 
Were  there  no  Heaven,  I  would  love  Thee  still ; 
I  love  Thee  for  Thy  Cross,  Thy  thorn-crowned 

Head; 
For  Thy  dread   Passion,  Lord,  I  love  Thee 

best; 

And  though  in  firmest  hope  I  wait  Thy  will, 
Compared  with  love,  my  strongest  hope  is  dead; 

For  without  hope,  in  love  I  'd,  trusting,  rest! 

4  37 


TROUBLED   SOULS. 
-^v*"-**— - 

TO  seek  true  rest  and  peace  in  wilds  away, 
It   is    not   strange   that    men   have    fled    the 

world 

From  all  the  storm  and  strife  perpetual  hurled 
At  the  fair  form  of  silence  all  the  day ; 
For  day  and  night  do  good  and  evil  sway 

In  close-knit  fight,  as  when  the  Titans  twirled 
And  twisted  in  fierce  combat :  never  furled 
Is  Satan's  flag,  blood-reddened  in  hell's  ray. 
And   though  Thy  cross,  dear   Christ,  shines   ever 
bright, 

And  Thy  sweet   Mother  downward  bends  her 
gaze, 

And    Thy   high   saints   own    us    in    brother 
hood, — 
Our  souls  are  troubled,  the  world's  wrong  seems 

right, 

Our  sight  is  dim,  we  falter  in  the  maze  ; 
For  all  our  evil  seems  so  near  our  good. 

38 


AT  THE  "AGNUS  DEL" 


PEACE,  not  of  earth,  I  ask  of  Thee,  O  God, 
Peace,  not  in  death,  and  yet  Thy  will  be  done; 
I  would  not  die  until  my  soul  has  won 
Some  little  grace  :  a  barren,  withered  sod 
My  life  has  been,  —  now  touch  me  with  Thy  rod, 
That  I  may  blossom,  as  in  summer  sun 
Thy  flowers  open  ;  pray  Thee  give  me  one 
Sweet  touch  of  peace,  for  I  am  but  a  clod. 
I  know  that  Thou  art  all  and  I  am  naught, 

Yet  I  would  show  my  new-found  love  for  Thee 

By  days  all  rilled  with  striving  for  Thy  grace. 

Peace,  peace,  O    peace!     the    peace  which  Thou 

hast  bought 

With  Precious  Blood  for  us,  O  give  it  me, 
Dear  Lamb  of  God,  that  I  may  see  Thy 

face! 

39 


GUI  BONO? 


F^ROM  thy  whole  life  take  all  the  sweetest  days 
Of  earthly  joy  ;  take  all  the  lucent  jewels 
Of    words    far-brought   by    all    the    learned 

schools 
Since  man  first  thought,  then  take  the  brightest 

rays 
Which  poets   limned  with  their  rose-flushed 

tools  ; 
Take  heart-wrung  music  chastened  with  strict 

rules 
Of  greatest  masters  ;  and  in  all  thy  ways 

Find  things  that  make  men  only  pleasure's 

fools. 

Take  these;  beside  them  lay  one  soul  -felt  prayer  ; 

Take  these;  beside  them  lay  one  little  deed  — 

One  simple   act  done    for  Christ's   Sacred 

Heart  - 

And  all  earth's  fairest  toys,  like  graspless  air 
To  it  will  be;  this  being,  then  what  need 
To   strive   for  things  that  will,  with   time, 

depart  ? 

40 


THE  POWER    OF  PRAYER. 

0  WORLD,  great  world,  now  thou  art  all  my 
own, 

In  the  deep  silence  of  my  soul  I  stay 
The  current  of  thy  life,  though  the  wild  day 
Surges  around  me,  I  am  all  alone ;  — 
Millions  of  voices  rise,  yet  my  weak  tone 

Is  heard  by  Him  who  is  the  Light,  the  Way, 
All  Life,  all  Truth,  the  centre  of  Love's  ray  ; 
Clamor,  O  Earth,  the  great  God  hears  my  moan  ! 
Prayer  is  the  talisman  that  gives  us  all, 

We  conquer  God  by  the  force  of  His  love, 

He  gives  us  all ;  when  prostrate  we  implore  — 
The  Saints  must  listen;  prayers  pierce  Heaven's 

wall; 

The  humblest  soul  on  earth,  when  mindful  of 
Christ's  promise,  is  the  greatest  conqueror. 

4*  41 


W 


THE  LESSON  OF  A    SEASON. 


HAT  comfort  now,  when  summer  days  have 

fled, 

Have  you,  O  heart,  that  in  the  sunshine  basked? 
Have  ye,  O  hands,  that  held  all  that  was  asked  ? 
For  all  your  fruits  and  flowers  lie  frosted,  dead. 
You  did  not  dream  amid  the  roses  red, 

Gold-hearted,  scented,  which  your  green  bowers 

masked, 
That  cold  would  come,  and  with  it  wild  winds 

tasked 

To  tear  away  the  garlands  from  your  head. 
O  lover  of  red  roses  and  red  wine, 

O  scorner  of  Christ's  Blood,  to  whom  a  prayer 
Brought    thoughts    of  dying,   shudders,    and 

vague  fear, 

Will  dreams  of  pleasure  and  past  joys  of  thine 
Make  dreary  winter  hours  more  bright  and  fair 
Amid  your  dust  and  ashes  ?     Death  is  here. 

42 


L  I  F>  K  A  K  Y 

UNIVERSITY    OK 

^  CALIFORNIA.// 

CONSOLATION. 


LET  me  forget  the  world  —  all,  all,  but  Thee  ; 
Let  my  whole  soul  arise  as  smoke  from  fire 
In  praise  of  Thee ;  let  only  one  desire 
Fill  my  whole  heart  —  that  through  eternity, 
Forever  and  forever,  I  may  be 

As  incense  ever  rising  to  the  Sire, 
The  Son,  and  Spirit ;  may  I  never  tire 
Of  praising  thus  the  glorious  Trinity ! 
Poor  soul,  poor  soul,  such  earthliness  hast  thou  ! 
The  world  's  thyself,  thou  canst  not  flee  from  it ; 
Thy  prayers   are  selfish  when  thou   prayest 

best, 
Thy  love  is  little,  and  thy  warmest  vow 

As  charred  wood  moistened,  the  fire  free  from  it ; 
Thou  lackest  much,  but  Christ  will  give  the 

rest. 

43 


AFTER  LENT. 

—»*»<**»«NL«~- 

NOW  the  drear  storm  is  past,  the  snow  is  gone, 
And  from  the  brown  earth  peeps  the  violet, 
And  from  the  west,  where  late  the  dim  sun  set 
In  winter  clouds,  with  weak  rays,  pale  and  wan, 
Comes  light  reflected,  of  a  newer  dawn ; 

Dark  days  have  passed  since  the  sad  Mother 

met 
The  sweet  Saint  John,  with  her  dark  garments 

wet 

With  precious  blood  shed  by  the  Holy  One : 
O  Mother  Mary,  all  our  hearts  are  thine, 
In  joy  and  sorrow  we  give  praise  to  thee, 
In  this  glad  time,  our  hearts  we  raise  to  thee, 
For  Christ's  great  glory  lends  its  rays  to  thee, 
His  love  and  Thy  love  in  our  hearts  entwine 

Like  knotted  tendrils  of  a  Tropic  vine ! 

44 


RESURREXIT  SICUT  DIXIT." 


AND  He  has  risen ! "  O  my  God,  my  Lord, 
When  shall  I  cease  to  pierce  Thy  heart  with 

woe? 

For  all  my  life  I  Ve  wandered  to  and  fro 
From  sin  to  sin,  and  Thou  hast  kept  strict  ward 
And  watch  upon  me,  staying  Thy  dread  sword 
Of  justice  o'er  me.     Even  now  I  know, 
Though  I  have  washed  where  the  clear  waters 

flow 

From  out  Thy  Rock,  my  heart  is  with  a  cord 
Bound  fast  to  sin.     "  And  He  is  Christ  indeed  !  " 
And  all  His  brightness  makes  me  feel  my  sin, 
For  as  He  brightens,  I  grow  darker  still  — 
A  spot  upon  Christ's  sun ;  yet,  in  my  need 
For  me  He  's  risen  !     I  will  enter  in 

His  joyful  heart,  and  wait  His  holy  will ! 

45 


57:  PATRICK'S  DAY. 


TS  there  a  land  in  all  the  great  round  earth 

1   In    which   thy   name's    unknown,    O    gracious 

Saint? 
Thy  people   praise   thee  ;    wild,   strong,  March 

winds  faint 
Beneath  the  burden  of  a  pious  mirth 

In  mem'ry  of  thee.     Where's  the  sad  complaint 
Of  yesterday?     To-day  our  preachers  paint 
Thy  glory,  Truth-bearer.     Hope  takes  new  birth  ; 
Old  tales  of  Ireland  light  the  dullest  hearth. 
Greater  than  Israel  have  thy  people  been  ; 

Greater  than  Moses,  gracious  Patrick,  thou  : 
For  greater  sorrow  have  no  people  seen, 

And  so  resigned  did  no  people  bow 
Unto  God's  will,  which   changing  all  Spring's 

green 

Leads  them  to  Spring  through  Fall  and  Win 
ter  now. 

46 


S 


IN  MEMORY  OF  DANIEL  0' CON  NELL. 

I 
O  like  a  slave  she  lies,"  the  nations  said, 


Pitying  or  scornful,  as  all  dolorous 
Erin  lay  bound,  like  old  Prometheus, 
With  vultures  gnawing,  though  she  was  not  dead, 
At  that  large  heart,  which  in  past  days  was  red 
With  valor,  love,  and  all  things  glorious  — 
Of  truth,  and  faith,  and  great  things  amorous: 
"A  slave  she  lies,  with  ashes  on  her  head." 
A  voice  arose  from  out  the  sorrowing-  souls 

o 

Of  sons   who    loved    her,   but    could    help   her 

not  — 

O'Connell's  voice  —  and  all  the  nations  stood 
In  wild  amaze,  for  as  the  ocean  rolls 
After  a  calm  into  each  sounding  grot, 

Pale  Erin  answered,  claiming  freedomhood  ! 

47 


48       IN     MEMORY    OF     DANIEL    o'CONNELL. 


II. 

r\  GREATER  than  the  greatest  of  the  men 
\J     Who  lived  in  Rome  in  ancient  Roman  days ! 

For  thou  vvert  Christian,  thou  in  all  thy  ways 
Didst  follow  Christ ;  and  on  that  dark  day  when, 
Falling  for  honor's  sake,  didst  rise  again 

With   contrite   heart,   and    Faith  sent   forth   its 

rays 
O'er  thy  clean  soul, —  thou  didst  thy  country 

raise 

To  higher  life :  who  should  not  love  thee,  then  ? 
He  who  is  base  enough  to  spot  thy  fame, 
Is  worthy  of  the  fearful  fate  of  those 

Whom,  says  the  proverb,  all  the  great  gods 

hate  : 
Traducing  thee,  he  wallows  low  in  shame ; 

Not  loving  thee,  he  loves  his  country's  foes  — 
Great  soul !     None  great  as  thou  there  lives 
of  late ! 


IN    MEMORY    OF    DANIEL    O'CONNELL.      49 


III. 

ODAY  of  little  thought  and  little  mind, 
When  love  of  gain  is  all  the  love  we  hold 
Of  any  worth ;  when  Faith  has  grown  so  cold 
That  all  the  world  seems  dark,  men  signet-signed 
With  Satan's  mark,  souls  vile  and  serpent-twined 
With  lust  of  gain,  and  even  in  Christ's  fold 
So  few  are  worthy  praise  :  sad,  unconsoled, 
Erin,  half  free,  wails  to  the  careless  wind. 
O'Connell  loosed  her  bonds :  to-day  she  stands 
Waiting  another  to  complete  his  work  — 

For  'mid  the  nations  she  is  half  a  slave  : 
Among  her  children  there  are  hearts  and  hands 
Strong  for  the  task,  but  in  their  proud  souls  lurk 

Envy  and  hatred,  and  they  cannot  save. 
5  D 


THE   CENTENNIAL   FOUNTAIN. 
(PHILADELPHIA.) 

"  In  that  day  there  shall  be  a  fountain  open  to  the  house  of 
David." — ZACHARIAS,  xii.  i. 

THEOBALD    MATHEW. 

HE  led  the  way,  and  yet  the  people  feared, 
And  fearing  fell,  and  almost  doubted  God ; 
He  led  the  way,  unmoved,  far  from  his  sod, 
He  burned  to  drive  a  demon,  hell-fire  seared 
With  darkest  crimes;  his  clouded  way  was  cheered 
By  one  great  hope :  that  with  Faith's  blessed  rod, 
Though  through  an  endless  desert,  worn,  unshod, 
Like  Moses  he  should  walk,  with  cross  upreared 
He  'd  strike   the   hardened   rock  of   his  tribe's 

heart, 
And    when    the    precious    flood    of    sorrow 

gushed, 

He  'd  lead  his  people,  contrite,  safe  at  last, 
Into  that  Land,  from  which  all  graces  dart, 
Whence  none  are  exiled,  where  all  groans  are 

hushed 
And  God's  sweet  mercy  lights  the  darkest 

past. 

50 


THE  CENTENNIAL  FOUNTAIN.       51 

II. 

THE  CARROLLS  AND  OTHERS. 

'  r|^HESE  exiles  have  no  part,"  some,  sneering, 
J.         said, 

"  In  the  gold-lettered  record  of  our  land  ; 
What   names  of  theirs  were  borne   among  the 

band 

That  trod  the  Mayflower,  or  by  them  that  fled 
From  their  dear  France,  when,  kingly,  at  the  head 
Of  her  affairs,  the  Fourteenth  Louis'  hand 
Firm  bore  \\\s  fleur  de  Us?"     O  ropes  of  sand 
Are    names  —  mere    names  !  —  if  of  the  boasted 

dead 

The  names  are  all  that  live,  we  point  to  deeds; 
Yes,  we  the  exiles,  though  we  boasted  not, 
Can  point  to  names  of  noblest  deeds   high- 
crowned 

That  in  the  spring-time  bravely  sowed  the  seeds 
From  which  have  sprung  the  flowers  that  grace 

our  lot, 

The  flowers  that  cluster  blood-won  Freedom 
'round. 


52  THE    CENTENNIAL    FOUNTAIN. 


III. 

THE   WORKERS. 

WHAT    if  the   way  be   dark   and    sown   with 
thorns, 

What  if  the  sun  go  down  in  yawning  night, 
What  if  all  Satan's  minions  'gainst  us  fight, 
And  our  best  hope  in  helpless  anguish  mourns,— 
Our   vanquished    strength    may    die,    but,    dying, 

scorns 

To  swerve  one  instant  from  the  path  of  right  ; 
Our  feet  may  weary,  but  the  fixed  light 
Of  Christ's  own  promise  shines,  as  crescent-horns 
Are  silver  still  behind  the  murkest  cloud : 
So  thought  the  men  who,  in  the  thickest  din 

Of  clam'rous  indecision,  stood  and  held 
Aloft  their  hopes  above  a  doubting  crowd. 
More  blest  than  Moses,  they  have  lived  to  win 
That  Gift  from  which,  in  dreams,  the  water 
welled. 


M 


BISMARCK. 

(1878.) 

EN  are  inconstant  as  the  changeful  sea 

That  ebbs  and  flows  at  feet  of  Lady  Moon, 
Raising  high  sand-hills  in  the  sun  of  noon 
And  crushing  them  to  level  sand  when  she 
Arises  in  the  night;  men's  cry  will  be 

For  one  uncrowned,  but,  changing    swift   and 

soon, 
They  call   a  crowned   head   Heaven's   greatest 

boon  : 

Constant  are  they  in  their  inconstancy. 
And  there  lives  one  whom  nations  called  a  god, 
Who  governed  all  with  stern,  despotic  hand  ; 
You  breathed  against  him  ;   you  were  "  free 
dom's  foe," 

Yet  naught  was  free  beneath  his  crushing  rod  ; 
Let  him  look  round ;  through  all  the  German 

land 
His  worship  dies :  thus  world-tides  ebb  and 

flow. 

5*  53 


HYLAS, 

AND    OTHER   POEMS. 

"Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard  are  sweeter:' 

KEATS. 


55 


HYLAS. 

(FROM  THE  THIRTEENTH  IDYL  OF  THEOCRITUS.) 

A  LTHOUGH  he  towered  on  the  battle-plain 
±\  As  if  he  owned  a  breast  and  heart  of  steel, 
Alcides,  slayer  of  the  lion,  had  felt 
The  pangs  of  sorrow  and  of  wounded  love ; 
He  loved  young  Hylas,  Theodamas'  son, 
For  Theodamas  had  Alcides  slain, 
And  so  he  was  a  father  to  this  boy, 
And  called  him  son  ;  and  as  the  days  went  by 
Taught  him  the  arts  of  counsel  and  of  war ; 
Each   hour  a   lesson  brought:    when   milk-white 

steeds 

Bore  forth  the  morn  from  out  Jove's  stable- door, 
Or  Phoebus  left  his  noontide  mark  on  walls, 

57 


58  HYLAS. 


Or  night  called  clucking  fowls  unto  their  rest, 
Alcides,  teaching,  wrought  bright  threads  of  gold 
The  boy's  fair  thoughts  among,  that  in  good  time 
A  perfect  man  might  graceful  Hylas  be. 
Anon  bold  Jason  sailed  with  Grecian  hosts, 
To  seek  the  Golden  Fleece  in  lands  afar ; 
Alcides  joined  them,  toil-enduring  chief, 
With  Hylas,  and  they  crossed  the  salty  tide 
In  Argo,  'twixt  Cyane's  isles  they  flew, 
And  in  deep  Phasis  furled  their  sails  at  last. 

'Twas  when  the  Pleiades  uphold  their  lights, 
And  tender  meads  foretell  the  summer  near, 
The  flower  of  Greece  outburst  in  this  emprise, 
Past  Hellespont  ahead  of  southern  gales, 
And  sleek  Propontis,  when  the  land  is  turned 
In  straight,  smooth  furrows  by  Cyanean  steers 
Again  they  sailed  ;  and  when  at  eve  they  land, 
Some  careless  on  the  verdure  spread  their  meal, 
While  others  for  the  night  rough  couches  make 
Of  stunted  Cyprus  and  sweet-smelling  reeds. 


HYLAS.  59 


Telamon  was  the  guest  of  Alcides, 

And,  ministering  to  them,  Hylas  went  to  bring 

In  brazen  vase  fresh  water  from  a  fount. 

With  bluest  celandine,  and  maidenhair, 

And  twisting  vines,  thick-starred  with  white- veined 

buds 

Of  flowers  that  open  when  the  morn  is  high 
And  close  at  noon,  and  beds  of  parsley  green 
Of  darkest  tint,  gem-like  the  spring  was  set ; 
Deep  in  its  waters,  lucent,  starry  clear  — 
Deep  in  its  waters  dwelt  the  jocund  nymphs, 
Eunica,  Malis,  and  bright  Nychea, 
Who,  ever  watching,  gayly  danced  and  sang. 

Young  Hylas  stood, —  ah,  hapless  Grecian  boy, — 
His  vase  in  hand,  to  catch  the  crystal  tide, 
And  fair  was  he  as  hapless  :  his  bright  hair 
Curled  close  in  crisped  ringlets  'round  a  brow 
As  white  as  gold-throned  Juno's ;  his  soft  limbs 
Were  rosy  with  young  blood,  as  if  within 


60  HYLAS. 


A  light  was  burning,  fed  by  heavenly  hands ; 
His  eyes  were  pure  as  water :  thus  he  seemed 
Holding  the  carved  vase  in  his  dimpled  hands  ;  — 
Those  hands  the  Na'ids  seize,  he  falls,  he  sinks, — 
As  some  mad  star  swift  cleaves  the  ocean-depths, 
He  cuts  the  waters,  and  the  waters  close  — 
The  Na'ids  laugh,  and  hold  young  Hylas  fast. 

Alcides  shook  with  rage;  in  red  right  hand 
He  grasped  his  heavy  club  and  thrice  he  called ; 
And  Hylas,  hearing  him,  strove  hard  to  cry; 
From  the  deep  fount  soft  murmurs  came  to  him, 
The  sound  seemed  distant,  though  the  voice  was 

near, 

As  wild  beasts  run  to  feast,  Alcides  flew 
Through  woods  and  brakes,  heart-broken  for  the 

boy. 

The  Argo  sailed,  but  still  Alcides  sought 
And  found  not;  but  the  scornful  chieftains  said, 
"  He    fled    from    Argo,"    which    they    deemed    a 

shame; 


HYLAS. 


61 


But  soon  Alcides,  coming,  sad  of  heart, 

Yet  strong  of  arm,  to  Colchis  did  such  deeds 

That  Jason  and  the  Greeks  unsaid  their  words. 

To  us  whose  Golden  Fleece  is  Holy  Grail, 
To  us  whose  Argo  is  the  bark  of  Faith, 
The  tale  of  Hylas  brings  a  meaning  grave 
Unthought  of  by  the  sweet  Sicilian  bard. 
Do  not  the  snares  of  pleasure  wait  for  us 
In  banks  of  flowers,  near  life's  placid  streams, 
So  clear,  so  fair,  and  yet  so  treacherous, 
In  these  our  days  ?     Forgetful,  we  are  lost ; 
And  then  Alcides  —  Age  —  remorseful  roves 

And  cries  out  for  lost  Youth  till  life  is  done. 
6 

/  LIBRA  UY   | 

jl  UNIVERSITY   OF 

CALIFORNIA. 


THE  SLEEPING   SONG. 
(PARAPHRASE  FROM  THE  TWENTY-FOURTH  IDYL  OF 

THEOCRITUS.) 

"PEN  months  had  passed  since  rosy  Hercules 
J-     Had  opened  wondering  eyes  unto  the  sun, 
When  in  the  sloping  light  of  summer's  eve, 
Alcmena,  mother  of  the  little  twins, 
Hercules  and  his  brother,  fair  to  see, 
Bared  her  soft  breasts,  as  all  our  mothers  did, 
In  tender  love,  and  gave  her  boys  their  food : 
And  having  laved  them  in  the  mellow  stream, 
She  laid  them  down  within  Amphitryon's  shield — 
A  half  sphere  of  bright  brass  by  bold  blows  won 
From  slaughtered  Pterelas  —  then,  with  her  hands, 
Like  blush-rose  petals,  on  the  head  of  each 

In  tones  like  cithern  echoes,  thus  she  sang: 

62 


THE    SLEEPING    SONG.  63 

"  Sleep,  my  boys,  in  gentle,  dewy  sleep, 
Until  the  dawn  in  glowing  beauty  peep 
To  call  the  hours  from  out  the  night's  dark  deep 
Into  the  light. 

"  Sleep,  for  the  day  has  sunk  in  the  red  west ; 
Sleep,    'neath    the    Mother-heart   that   loves   you 

best; 

Sleep,  sleep,  and  peaceful,  peaceful  be  your  rest 
Till  dark  is  light. 

'  Anemones  and  roses  drop  their  leaves 
In  silent  night,  but  still  the  ocean  aheaves, 
And  so  my  heart  fresh  waves  of  love  receives 
Through  all  the  night 

"  My  other  self  in  two,  my  heart  in  two, 
Sleep  happy,  and  wake  joyous  !     Oh,  for  you 
I  pray  the  gods  to  give  me  all  I  sue 

Through  day  and  night." 

And  as  sea-nymphs  soft  toss  a  favored  boat, 
She  rocked  the  buckler,  singing  as  it  moved. 


CYCLOPS   TO   GALATEA. 

(PARAPHRASE  FROM  THE  ELEVENTH  IDYL  OF 
THEOCRITUS.) 

SOFTER  than  lambs  and  whiter  than  the  curds, 
O  Galatea,  swan- nymph  of  the  sea  ! 
Vain  is  my  longing,  worthless  are  my  words ; 
Why  do  you  come  in  night's  sweet  dreams  to 

me, 

And  when  I  wake,  swift  leave  me,  as  in  fear 
The  lambkin  hastens  when  a  wolf  is  near? 

Why  did  my  mother  on  a  dark-bright  day 
Bring  you  for  hyacinths  a-near  my  cave  ? 

I  was  the  guide,  and  through  the  tangled  way 
I  thoughtless  led  you ;  I  am  now  your  slave. 

Peace   left    my  soul   when   you    knocked   at   my 
heart  — 

Come,  Galatea,  never  to  depart ! 

64 


CYCLOPS    TO     GALATEA.  65 

Though  I  am  dark  and  homely  to  the  sight  — 
A  Cyclops  I,  and  stronger  there  are  few  — 

Of    you    I    dream    through    all    the   quick-paced 

night, 
And  in  the  morn  ten  fawns  I  feed  for  you, 

And  four  young  bears  :  Oh,  rise  from  grots  below, 

Soft  love  and  peace  with  me  forever  know  ! 

Last  night  I  dreamed  that  I,  a  monster  finned, 
Swam  in  the  sea  and  saw  you  singing  there: 

I  gave  you  lilies,  and  refreshing  wind 
Laden  with  odors  of  all  flowers  rare ; 

I  gave  you  apples,  as  I  kissed  your  hand, 

And  reddest  poppies  from  my  richest  land. 

Oh,  brave  the  restless  billows  of  your  world  : 
They  toss  and  tremble ;  see  my  cypress-grove, 

And  bending  laurels,  and  the  tendrils  curled 
Of  honeyed  grapes,  and  a  fresh  treasure-trove 

In  vine-crowned  y-Etna,  of  pure-running  rills! 

O  Galatea,  kill  the  scorn  that  kills  ' 
6*  E 


66  CYCLOPS    TO    GALATEA. 

Softer  than  lambs  and  whiter  than  the  curds, 

O  Galatea,  listen  to  my  prayer ; 
Come,  come  to  land,  and  hear  the  song  of  birds  : 

Rise,  rise,  from  ocean-depths,  as  lily-fair 
As  you  are  in  my  dreams !  Come,  then,  O  Sleep, 
For  you  alone  can  bring  her  from  the  deep. 

And  Galatea,  in  her  cool,  green  waves, 

Plaits  her  long  hair  with  purple  flower  bells, 

And  laughs   and  sings,  while  black-browed  Cy 
clops  raves, 
And  to  the  wind  his  love-lorn  story  tells  : 

For  well  she  knows  that  Cyclops  will  erelong 

Forget,  as  poets  do,  his  pain  in  song. 


BETWEEN  THE  LIGHTS. 

A    PHANTASY. 

(To  JOHN  J.  STAFFORD.) 

IN  the  cool,  soft,  fragrant  summer  grass, 
'Mid  trembling  stalks  of  white-tipped  clover, 
I  lie  and  dream,  as  the  shadows  pass 

From  twilight's  gates  the  cloud-bridge  over. 

On  the  other  side,  dim  other  side, 

Lie    starlight,   gloom,  and   the    night's   chill 

wind. 
Calm  eve  comes  forth,  like  a  timid  bride, 

And  with  shaded  eyes  looks  on  mankind ;  — 
She  looks  at  me,  as  I  lounge  and  dream  ; 

She  builds  in  the  sky  for  my  delight 
High-towered  castles  that  glow  and  gleam 

Redder  than  snow-crests  in  North  fires  bright. 

67 


68  BETWEEN    THE    LIGHTS. 

She  shows  me  Ceres,  mid  corn-flowers  blue, 

And  Pluto's  bride  on  her  throne  below, 
And  Helen  fair,  to  her  lord  untrue, 

Anguished  and  wailing  in  deathless  woe ; 
Gold  arabasques  on  a  jasper  ground, 

Gray  cameo-faces,  cold  and  grand, 
Puck  and  Peas-blossom  hovering  round, 

Oberon  and  his  glittering  band. 

She  changes  her  aspect,  opal  eve !  - 

Shows  me  a  plain  near  the  walls  of  Troy, 
Where  shepherds  sheep  in  low  shrubs  leave 

In  haste,  to  gaze  on  a  bright-haired  boy  - 
The  boy  is  Paris,  he  cometh  out, 

Out  of  the  city,  strong-limbed  and  fair. 
Live  I  in  future  or  past?     I  doubt 

Am  I  Greek  shepherd  or  gay  trouvere  — 

Who  lieth,  dreaming  perhaps  of  her, 

CEnone  weeping  for  him,  forlorn?  — 

Who  strives  with  the  plaintive  lute  to  stir 
Some  love  in  a  Norman  heart  of  scorn? 


BETWEEN    THE    LIGHTS.  69 

Out  of  a  balcon  of  hues  that  glow, 

There  leans  a  lady  against  the  sky, 

Her  robe  is  bordered  with  pearls,  I  know, 

Pearls  on  her  neck  with  her  pearl-skin  vie. 

There  stands  a  lover  in  gay  slashed  hose, 

With  a  bright  plumed  hat  and  purple  cloak, 
He  calls  her  "  lily  "  and  "  damask  rose ;  " 

Even  in  cloudland  they  wear  love's  yoke. 
Bold  knights  ride  forward  on  prancing  steeds, 

King  Arthur's  court,  with  Sir  Launcelot  — 
Presto  !  T  is  Syrinx  among  the  reeds, 

Apollo  seeks  her,  but  finds  her  not. 

I  am  so  idle  in  summer  grass, 

I  cannot  think  for  scent  of  clover; 

No  moral  I  find  in  clouds  that  pass, 
I  only  know  that  sunset 's  over. 


ON  READING 

"OUT  OF  SWEET  SOLITUDES 

(TO    ELEANOR   C.    DONNELLY.) 

"  Perpetuam  carmen  ab  prima  origine  mundi." — OVID. 

HOW   blind   we   are,   how   deaf,   how  void  of 
sense  — 

The  finer  sense  that  sees  the  good  around, 
That  hears  the  angels  when  there  is  no  sound, 
Finds  silence  music,  muteness  eloquence. 

Ah,  if  we  knew  ('t  is  seeing  through  a  wall) 
The  golden  art  which  the  great  Poet  gave 
In  Arden's  forest  to  his  Jacques  the  grave, 

Of  hearing  soundless  words  and  good  in  all, 

We  would  be  wiser  in  God's  little  things  — 

Things  grand  and  sweet  beyond  mere  human 

speech, 

So,  when  an  angel  came  within  our  reach, 
We  'd  hear  the  benediction  of  his  wings. 

70 


"OUT    OF    SWEET    SOLITUDE."  7! 

In  olden  times  men  strove  to  pierce  the  cloud, 
To  find  in  sad  sea-waves  the  longing  sighs 
Of  waiting  ghosts  ;  and  Argus'  many  eyes 

In  peacocks'  tails ;  seeing  a  nameless  crowd 

Of  giants  and  pigmies ;  Daphne  hid  her  face 
In  the  green  laurel,  fauns  and  satyrs  wild, 
With  Bacchantes,  the  wine-hued  hours  beguiled, 

And  dreams  and  fancy  peopled  every  place. 

But  Pan  is  dead,  and  Syrinx  near  the  stream, 
Within  her  reedy  cell,  no  longer  lives ; 
And  now  to  YOU  our  Mother  Nature  gives 

The  grace  to  hear  God's  tone  in  life's  swift  dream 

o 

How  blind,  how  dull,  how  deaf,  how  helpless  we 
The  angels  come,  and  when  they  go  away, 
We  feel  a  cold  change  in  our  April  day  : 

We  know  not  they  were  near;  we  cannot  see ! 


CHARITY. 
(SUGGESTED  BY  DORE'S  "SPANISH  BEGGARS.") 

DONA  Inez  was  a  lady 
Very  rich  and  fair  tp  see, 
And  her  heart  was  like  a  lily 

In  its  holy  purity 
Through  the  widest  street  in  Cadiz 

Dona  Inez  rode  one  day, 
Clad  in  costly  silk  and  laces, 
Mid  a  group  of  friends  as  gay. 

Near  the  portals  of  a  convent  — 

From  the  Moors  just  lately  won  — 
Sat  a  crowd  of  dark-skinned  beggars 

Basking  in  the  pleasant  sun ; 
One  an  old  man  —  he  a  Christian 

Blind  to  all  the  outward  light  — 
Told  his  black  beads,  praying  softly 

For  all  poor  souls  still  in  night. 

72 


CHARITY.  73 


"  I  am  but  a  Moorish  beggar," 

Said  a  woman  with  a  child ; 
"  I  am  but  a  Moorish  beggar, 

And  the  Moors  are  fierce  and  wild. 
You  may  talk  of  Christian  goodness  - 

Christian  Faith  and  Charity, 
But  /'//  never  be  a  Christian 

Till  some  proof  of  these  I  see. 
Christians  are  as  proud  and  haughty 

As  the  proudest  Moor  of  all ; 
And  they  hate  the  men  that  hate  them 

With  a  hate  like  bitter  gall." 

"  You  judge  rashly,  O  my  sister, 
In  the  words  you  speak  to  me." 

"  I  would  be  a  Christian,  blind  man  : 
Show  me  Christian  charity  ! 

"  Lo  !  here  comes  proud  Dona  Inez, 

Very  rich  and  fair  to  see  ; 
I  am  but  a  Moorish  beggar, 
Will  the  lady  come  to  me  ? 


74  CHARITY. 


No  !  she  will  not,  for  she  hateth 

All  the  children  of  the  Moor. 
If  she  come,  I  tell  you,  blind  man, 

I  will  kneel,  and  Christ  adore !  " 

Passing  was  the  Lady  Inez, 

When  the  dark  group  met  her  eye, 
And  she  leant  from  out  her  litter 

Smiling  on  them  tenderly. 
"  They  are  poor,  they  are  God's  children," 

Said  a  voice  within  her  soul, 
And  she  lightly  from  her  litter 

Stepped  to  give  the  beggars  dole. 

Sneered,  and  laughed,  and  laughing,  wondered 

All  the  other  ladies  gay ; 
And  the  Lady  Inez  knew  not 

She  had  saved  a  soul  that  day. 


FROM  THE   GRAVE. 

("Chaque  fois  que  tu  laisses  tomber  une  larme,  mon  cercueil 
est  plein  de  sang.  Chaque  fois  que  ton  coeur  est  gai,  mon  cer 
cueil  est  plein  de  feuilles  de  roses.") 

WEEP  not  for  me,  O  tender  heart ! 
Thou  know'st  my  wish  that  all  thy  part 
In  life  should  be  a  happy  way 
As  sunlit  as  a  summer  day. 

Weep  not  fcr  me ! 

In  life  thy  tears  were  bitter  drops, 
In  death  thy  woe  's  a  hand  that  stops 
The  current  of  Eternity, 
And  smites  thy  echoed  grief  to  me, 
O  tender  heart ! 

No  tears,  O  love !  be  happy  now ! 
"  A  little  while,"  and  know  shalt  thou 
What  't  is  to  lie  and  wait  in  earth 
The  resurrection  and  the  birth. 

Weep  not  for  me  ! 

75 


FADED  LEAVES. 

HE  heard  a  maiden  singing  in  a  wood, 
He  saw  the  wild  vines  kiss  her  as  she  stood, 
With  face  upturned  to  note  their  wavy  grace. 

There  was  no  note  of  sadness  in  her  song, 
And  yet  his  thoughts  were  saddened,  as  along 
The  woodland  path  she  went,  'mid  tender  leaves. 

"  To-day's  a  dream,  to-morrow's  real,"  he  said; 
"  For  life 's  a  dream,  the  wakened  ones  are  dead  ; 
She  sings  a  lullaby  for  all  her  race." 

And  death  is  real,  for  life  is  but  to-day; 
To-morrow's  death,  to-day  will  pass  away, 

And  hold,  for  green  and  sunlit,  faded  leaves. 

76 


TO-DAY. 

I^O-DAY    is    bright    with    golden    gleams    of 
spring, 

To-day  is  fair,  and  all  our  sweet  hopes  sing, 
But  night  comes  down,  and  then  our  day  is  done. 

It  is  not  always  bright,  nor  always  spring, 
And  sunny  seasons  are  the  ones  that  bring 
Most  sudden  showers,  and  the  light  is  gone ! 

Live  in  the  sunlight,  in  the  fair  to-day  ! 
To-morrow  keeps  to-morrow,  and  the  way 
May,  in  a  moment,  lose  the  light  of  sun! 

7*  77 


OF  LIFE. 

HE,  fixing  eyes  of  hope  upon  the  sun, 
And  never  steering  while  the  swift  waves 

run, 
Him  turning  as  they  list,  reaches  no  goal. 

For  all  our  life  is  made  of  little  things, 
Our  chain  of  life  is  forged  of  little  rings, 
And  little  words  and  acts  uplift  the  soul. 

'T  is  good  to  look  aloft  with  ardent  eyes, 
And  work  as  well;  he,  doing  these,  is  wise; 
But  one  without  the  other  gains  no  goal. 

78 


L  I  B  K  A  li  Y 

'  UN  I V  K  K  s  I  T  Y   O  F  ' 

CALIFORNIA. 

===^=^ 

SONGS. 
'«* 
I. 

"  GOLD    AND    GREEN." 

GOLD  and  green  and  blue  and  white, 
Daisies,  buttercups,  and  sky, 
Grass,  and  clouds,  and  birds  unite 
In  a  chorus  of  delight 

For  the  tender  spring  is  nigh, 
Soon  will  winds  no  longer  sigh. 

March  and  April  pass  away, 

And  the  dainty-fingered  rain 

Plays  sweet  symphonies  all  day 

Welcoming  the  lovely  May, 

Soon  will  chickweed  fill  the  lane, 

And  poppies  sprout  amid  the  grain. 

79 


80  SONGS. 


II. 

AFTER    HAFIZ. 

NARCISSUS-FLOWERS   drunk  with  dew  of 
night, 
Her  eyelids  droop,  to  veil  a  scornful  light ; 

And   on  her  white  brow  curl   the  black   love 
locks, 
Twin  serpents  on  the  pale  orb  of  the  moon. 

O  breath  of  roses,  rose  of  red  and  white, 
O  voice  of  bulbul,  O  my  heart's  delight, 

I  care  not  though  your  languid  smile  but  mocks, 
A  smile  from  you  is  Allah's  greatest  boon. 


SONGS.  8l 


III. 

(FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  FRANCOIS  COPPEE.) 

0  HEART  of  exile,  dream  thou  of  the  day 
When  the  fair  future  all  thy  nature  stirred, 
And  in  thy  hand  her  white  hand  nestling  lay, 
Like  a  tired  bird. 

Ah,  then,  how  quickly  all  thy  soul  within 
Grew  warm  and  trembled  in  that  tender  hour, 
How  silently  thou  drank'st  the  moments  in, 
Like  a  faint  flower. 

Again  dark  clouds  of  sorrow  fill  thy  sky, 
For  she,  afar,  can  give  no  look  or  word  — 
Thy  tender  thoughts  away  all  drooping  fly, 
Like  a  tired  bird. 

Already  o'er  thy  soul  comes  winged  distrust, 
And  grief  is  born  anew  in  love's  late  bower, 
Thou  know'st  love  will  fall  and  fade  in  dust, 

Like  a  faint  flower. 
F 


82  SONGS. 


IV. 
APPLE   BLOSSOMS. 

THE  tender  branches  sway  and  swing, 
Whispering  all  that  the  robins  sing 
Of  hope  and  love,  and  lightly  fling 

Showers  of  apple  blossoms. 

A  head  of  black  and  a  head  of  gold, 
Her  little  hands  in  his  firm  hold, 
Eyes  that  speak  more  than  words  have  told 
Under  the  apple  blossoms. 

Ever  on  earth  again  shall  they 
Find  in  springtime  so  fair  a  day  ? 
T  is  true  that  love  can  pass  away 

With  spring  and  apple  blossoms. 


SONGS.  83 


V. 

LIKE    A    LILAC.  * 

1IKE  a  lilac  in  the  spring 
-J     Is  my  love,  my  lady  love  ; 
Purple  white  the  lilacs  fling 

Scented  blossoms  from  above. 
So  my  love,  my  lady  love, 

Throws  sweet  glances  on  my  heart; 
Ah,  my  dainty  lady  love, 

Every  glance  is  Cupid's  dart. 

Like  a  pansy  in  the  spring 

Is  my  love,  my  lady  love, 
For  her  velvet  eyes  oft  bring 

Golden  fancies  from  above. 

*  Music  by  Biederman.     Published  by  D.  Nolan,  37  Bar 
clay  St.,  New  York. 


84  SONGS. 


Ah,  my  heart  is  pansy-bound, 
By  those  eyes  so  tender-true ; 

Balmy  heart's-ease  have  I  found, 
Dainty  lady  love,  in  you. 

Like  the  changeful  month  of  spring 

Is  my  love,  my  lady  love ; 
Sunshine  comes  and  glad  birds  sing, 

Then  a  rain-cloud  floats  above. 
So  your  moods  change  with  the  wind, 

April-tempered  lady  love, 
All  the  sweeter  to  my  mind ; 

You  're  a  riddle,  lady  love. 


SONGS.  85 


VI. 

DANGEROUS    FRANKNESS. 

INCONSTANT?     And    why   not,   O    fair    Hel- 
1  ene? 

You  have  the  bluest  eyes  I  've  ever  seen, 
Blue  as  the  violets  in  that  season  when 

The   fields    and   hills    are    tinged    with    faintest 

green ; 

But  you  have  not  fair  Marie's  tender  voice, 
Or  Constance's  smile  in  which  all  hearts  rejoice. 

Inconstant?     Why?     I  love  the  good  in  all, 
The  good  in  one,,  and  like  the  roving  bee, 

(Are  you  has  bleu,  fair  Helene,  will  you  call 
My  "  roving  bee  "  a  threadbare  simile  ?) 

I  go  from  flower  to  fruit,  and  I  love  each, 

The  faint-tinged  rose-bud  and  the  carmine  peach. 
8* 


86  SONGS. 


I  love  you  for  your  eyes,  O  fair  Helene, 

Your  blue,  blue  eyes,  so  deep  and  limped-clear, 

In  whose  deep  depths  are  drowned  many  men, 
And  for  their  deaths  have  you  not  shed  a  tear? 

And  yet  I  love  dear  Rosalind's  shy  grace, 

And  —  can  I  help  it?  —  little  Celia's  face. 

I  love  the  good  in  all,  the  good  in  one : 

Too  frank  am  I  ?     Can't  help  it !  't  is  my  way. 

If  you  '11  be  Clytie,  I  will  be  the  sun, 
And  you  can  follow  me  about  all  day, 

And  yet  I  '11  smile  on  all,  and  that  will  be 

Love  universal,  not  inconstancy. 

Conceited  ?     How  you  wrong  me,  fair  Helene ; 

I  'm  not  Apollo,  and  I  know  that  well : 
But  you  're  not  Clytie ;  if  you  were,  why  then 

I  'd  follow  you.     Good  gracious !  who  could  tell 
The  girl  would  get  so  mad  !     A  temper,  too  ! 
I  '11  never  trust  in  meekest  eyes  of  blue ! 


SONGS.  87 


VII- 
A    RHAPSODY. 

"  Yield  up,  O  love,  thy  crown  and  hearted  throne."  — OTHELLO. 

HE  walks  in  vain  by  yonder  garden-gate, 
Where  hollyhocks  and  tall  carnations  rise, 
Sweet  marjoram  and  blooms  that  linger  late, 
And  all  the  scented  herbs  that  housewives  prize. 

A  late  rose  throws  soft  kisses  to  the  breeze, 
On  petals  sunrise-hued,  like  his  love's  cheeks  ; 

He  hears  a  child's  voice  in  the  apple-trees; 
He  starts  !  Ah,  no ;  it  is  not  she  that  speaks  ! 


Gone  !  lost !     Her  voice  must  ever  be  afar- 

Those  tones  that  made  his  fond  heart  fervent 
bound ; 

'T  was  not  a  voice  as  other  voices  are, 

For  blithesome  hope  and  love  were  in  the  sound. 


SONGS, 


She  was  a  damsel,  dainty,  fair,  and  fine, 

A  princess  in  the  city's  latest  style, 
And  "  darts  "  and  "  hearts  "  were  not  much  in  her 

line, 
A  little  nonsense  was :  many  a  mile 

Stretches  between  the  lonely  heart  that 's  left, 
'Mid  fading  hedges,  and  the  maiden  fair, 

One  heart  is  hot  with  pain,  of  joy  bereft, 

The  other  's  gay,  and  bright,  and  free  from  care. 

A  summer  season  and  a  wounded  heart  — 

A  man's  strong  heart  that  sufT'ring  makes  no 

moan  — 

Alas !  that  reason  and  true  love  should  part ; 
"Yield    up,    O    love,    thy    crown    and    hearted 
throne." 

And  Cupid  sneered,  for  Cupid's  young  no  more, 
And  in  my  face  he  puffed  his  cigarette ; 

"  Drop  sentiment,  —  it 's  such  an  awful  bore  ; 
She  has  forgotten,  he  will  soon  forget !  " 


SONGS. 


VIII. 

DRIFTING. 
(To  C.  DE  B.) 

IN  August,  when  the  sun  shone  o'er  the  wheat, 
Standing    in    shocks    in    the    quiet,    pleasant 

fields, 
We,  hand  in  hand,  walked  through  the  noonday 

heat, 

Along  the  land  to  where  the  pond  lay  still, 
'Neath  water-lilies  floating  at  its  will. 

And,  while  we  walked  and  spoke  of  other  days, 
In  August,  too,  before  my  love  and  I 

Had  been  made  one,  to  walk  through  this  world's 

ways 
As  man  and  wife,  until  the  end  shall  be, 

When  life  shall  live  itself  eternally, 
8* 


SONGS. 


Her  sister,  speaking  to  her,  softly  said  : 

"How  far,"  she   asked,  "my  Alice,  have  you 
solved 

Life's  problem  ?     Well,  I  mind  me,  ere  were  wed 
Camille  and  you,  you  often  thought  it  o'er, 
Fearful  of  darkness  on  the  unseen  shore." 

And,  as  we  skirted  the  sweet,  verdant  shores, 
And  drifted  near  the  lilies,  spoke    no  word 

My  thoughtful  wife,  and  the  unmoved  oars 
Caught  in  the  branches  of  the  hanging  trees, 
Came  from   the   land   the   murmuring  hum   of 
bees. 

"  Life  is  no  problem,"  said  my  wife,  at  last; 

'  Tis  our  own  weakness  makes  us  think  it  one; 

For  we  can  read  the  future  by  the  past. 

Has  God  not  kept  us  ?     We  are  anchored  here, 
Floating,  yet  anchored  —  lilies  in  a  mere." 


SONGS. 


IX. 

A    SWEDISH    LEGEND. 

THOU  wilt  be  mine !  "    the  Swedish  monarch 
sighed. 

"  No,  never  thine  !  "  the  fair  Christine  replied  ; 
"Thou  hast  a  queen  —  a  good  and  lovely  bride." 

"  But  thou  shalt  have  bright  robes  and  laces  old, 
And  thou  shalt  wear  a  dazzling  crown  of  gold, 
And  thou  shalt  half  of  all  my  kingdom  hold!  " 

"  My  soul  is  dearer  than  thy  garments  bright ; 
I  love  not  flowers  plucked  in  guilt's  dark  night ; 
I  fear  the  wrong,  I  love  God's  holy  right." 

"  Thou  shalt  be  mine,  or  die  in  torture  dire, 
Thou  shalt  not  die  by  water  or  by  fire, 
My  love  was  life,  now  death  is  my  desire." 


92  SONGS. 


And  in  a  cask  strong-spiked  with  points  of  steel, 
Men  place  the  maiden,  and  then  roughly  wheel 
The  cask  along  by  blow  of  fist  and  heel. 

Ah,  she  is  dead,  with  blood  upon  her  brow; 
Three  angels  with  white  wings  before  her  bow 
And  bear  her  up, —  her  pain  is  rapture  now. 


SONGS.  93 


X. 

AN    OLD    FRENCH    BALLAD. 

(TRANSLATED  FROM  A  COLLECTION  OF  POETRY  BY  GERARD  DE 
NERVAL.) 

WHEN  Jean  Renaud  came  home  from  the  war, 
His  body  and  mind  were  sick  and  sore. 
"  Good-day,  my  mother."     "  Good-day,  my  son  ; 
Your  little  child's  life  has  just  begun." 

"Arrange,  my  mother,  the  great  white  bed, 
That  I  may  lie  down  and  rest  my  head ; 
But  make  no  noise,  my  mother,  for  fear 
My  wife  on  her  couch  of  pain  may  hear." 

And  when  the  old  hamlet  clock  had  tolled 
The  midnight  hour,  the  death-angel  rolled 
Away  the  stone  from  the  cave  of  life, 
And  Jean  Renaud  passed  from  sin  and  strife. 


94  SONGS. 


"  Mother,  dear  mother,"  his  poor  wife  said, 
"  Why  do  they  sing  as  if  one  were  dead  ?  " 
"  Daughter,  dear  daughter,  't  is  but  a  crowd 
That  passes  us  by,  chanting  aloud." 

"  But,  mother,  my  dear,  why  weep  you  so  ? 
I  see  the  tears  as  they  shine  and  flow." 
"Alas !  the  sad  truth  I  cannot  hide, 
Tis  our  own  poor  Jean  who  has  just  died." 

"  O  mother,  say  to  the  sexton,  who 

Digs  in  the  earth,  that  a  grave  for  two 

Must  be  made  so  very  wide  and  deep 

That  my  husband,  I,  and  our  child  may  sleep/1 


SONGS.  95 


XL 

THE    CHANGELESS    ONE. 

THE  flaming  fire  of  the  oriole 
No  longer  glows  in  the  summer  air; 
The  waves  of  the  stream  no  longer  roll 

Under  the  feathery  maidenhair  : 
Days  that  seemed  changelessly  soft  and  mild 
Have  changed  to  the  winter  fierce  and  wild. 

The  Castanet  of  the  katydid 

Soundeth  no  more  in  the  autumn  air; 
The  grass  and  the  tree-roots  all  lie  hid 

Deep  'neath  a  cloak  more  soft  and  fair 
Than  wool  that  is  shorn  in  shearing-time, 
Than  flowers  that  fall  in  the  orange  clime. 


96  SONGS. 


Changes  the  call  of  the  katydid, 
Changes  the  oriole's  scarlet  glare, 

Changes  all  earth  ;  and  the  frolic  kid, 

And  the  child  that  climbs  his  father's  chair, 

Will  ripe  and  ripe  as  the  swift  hours  chime 

And  change  'neath  the  hand  of  changing  time. 

Swift  changes  even  the  human  soul, 
Humanly  tarnished,  then  Godlike  fair, 

Redder  than  blood  or  the  oriole, 

Whiter  than  robes  that  the  angels  wear. 

Alone  God  is  changeless,  soul  beguiled 

By  dreams  that  are  changing,  sin-defiled ! 


THE    END. 


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